by H. T. Night
There wasn’t a ring on Wendy’s finger, but I was sure she never made eye contact with me. I needed to see if at least there was some attraction on her part. I have light brown hair and green eyes. I was thin, but it was a muscular thin. At my age, I’m a catch and I knew it. I have a great job, and my only vice is betting. Plus, I’m one charming dude, so I have been told.
“All right, sweet and sour wings and a MGD in a large mug,” I said to Wendy. Okay, maybe my second vice was drinking, but I kept it under wraps. Wendy never looked me in the eye. She walked away and took the order to the kitchen. She never knew what she had missed. I looked at Steve, who had gotten back to work on his nachos as if he would never eat again. “What was that about? She never once looked at me.”
Steve laughed. “Yeah, she’s a hard ass. That’s why I didn’t say anything. She has zero flirt in her waitress arsenal.”
“Doesn’t she understand that the way she gets drunk thirty-year-olds like us to give her an obscene tip at the end of the evening is by flirting? Because we don’t know any better and we just might think we have a shot, so we throw down an insane tip?”
“I don’t think she cares,” Steve said. “She has been told she’s hot all her life and she only comes up for air if she’s really interested.”
“Well, that’s just dumb business practice,” I said. “I don’t care how thorough of a waitress she is; she would only be getting 15 percent. The bare minimum I give is 10 percent and that’s when I get shitty service. I give 15 percent for mediocre to minimal service. I give 20 percent if the person does their job.”
“Huh? I didn’t realize she was a franchise.”
“She’s a franchise in her own surroundings.”
“How so?” Steve asked.
“Can her job take her tips?”
“No, her tips are all hers,” Steve said.
“So if you look at it, inside the realm of her making tips, she has an infinite ceiling, correct? In all reality, her job could pay her eight bucks an hour, but technically, she could walk out of here with two grand each night.”
“That would be some waitress.” Steve laughed. “We’re talking the works. She would have to cut my hair, feed me, and massage my feet, shoulders, and neck. Maybe even pop a couple zits on my back.”
“I’m glad you kept your statement classy as always.”
“I aim to please,” Steve said.
There was a pause at the table. Steve was great at reading silence for what it was. In this case, I was still feeling uncomfortable with the decision I was basically forced to make today about a person I had recently grown very fond of.
“What happened today?” Steve asked. “It’s obviously eating away at you. Let’s talk about it and get it out of the way, and we can watch the Silver and Black beat up some Broncos.”
I shook my head. I really didn’t want to go into it with Steve, but I guess it was bothering me more than I thought. How could it not? I made a decision that ended a man’s life this afternoon. “I had to make a rough decision today. A guy wrote in his bereavement papers that I was to be the one to make the final decision on his life.”
“What does that mean? You were his power of attorney?” Steve asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Wow, that’s heavy. Don’t they need your signature for that?”
“He was an outpatient of mine, and I thought I was signing his weekly report that he turns into his parole officer.”
“Instead, he had you sign his power of attorney paper?”
“Yep.” I looked at Steve and his investigative mind was working on overdrive.
“Who was this guy? Don’t tell it was that Crenshaw character?”
“It was,” I said.
“I told you he was bad news.”
“He wasn’t bad news. He had nobody in this world who gave a shit if he lived or died. He did what he had to do to get me to sign those papers.”
“You really liked that guy?”
“I mean he was no Steve Moss, but he had great qualities, and his addiction was bigger than his will.”
“That’s the difference between you and me, Hunter. You give the average Joe a chance. Hell, you give pond scum a chance. Me? I don’t trust anybody.”
“You don’t trust me?” I asked.
Then Steve gave me a look and said, “I don’t even trust myself.”
“That’s comforting to know: my best friend since freshman year in college doesn’t trust me.”
“Look, I trust you, Hunter. I trust you to show up when you say you’re going to show up. I trust that when you tell me something about your day, it’s the truth. You see, our world... the one you and I live in as friends…isn’t part of that world out there. The one filled with drugs, crime, and homicide. You see, Hunter, when I step into that world, I don’t trust anyone. I just do my job and hope the information I’m getting is correct.”
“What about Munson?”
“Munson is a great guy. But at the end of the day, do I completely trust him? No. You see, he will always have the Shield’s best interest, regardless if he steps outside the lines and gives me information that can help me on a complicated case or not.”
Munson was Steve’s immediate contact on the force. They were constantly doing each other favors. Whenever Steve needed police help, he called Munson. And whenever Munson needed to step out of protocol, if he needed something done that wasn’t necessarily by the book, he had Steve do it. I had met him a few times and he seemed like a genuine cop that cared for people and who wanted to see justice done at all costs.
“Didn’t realize you were such a glass-half-empty guy,” I said to Steve.
“You know exactly what I’m about. Have I ever been the optimistic type?” Steve looked at me as if to say, ‘Come on, we’re talking about me here.’
“Well, anyway,” I said. “Dave, the Crenshaw character, overdosed and was in a coma. Today, I made a decision that ended his life.”
Steve was quiet. This was about as deep and heavy as our relationship would go. “That doesn’t seem fair to you. You’re only a fucking crisis counselor.”
“Only a fucking crisis counselor?” I said, offended. I never felt Steve truly respected what I did for a living. Steve thought it was all about holding hands and singing Kumbaya all night.
“You know what I mean. Listen, Hunter. You know I’m on your side. I know you’re excellent at what you do.”
“Excellent? Really? I’ve had three outpatients die on me just this year. I think I’m pretty lousy at what I do.”
“Don’t be hard on yourself. Most of the time, you’re making beds in a burning house.”
“I know. I’m tired of it.” I paused. “This guy was different, though. I saw him making progress. He was clean for six weeks. It just makes zero sense to me that he would overdose in his apartment. He was starting to have a normal life. I had gotten him a job at the sewage company, and he was making substantial progress. We had him on the right medication, and I truly felt we had it under control.”
“Are you suspecting foul play?”
“Even the police suspect foul play, but they’re just writing it off as a drug deal gone bad. They don’t feel the beating and the overdose are conclusive. They think he got into a fight and went home and felt bad. Then he overdosed.”
“You know, that’s probably what happened.”
“You ever have a gut feeling about something?” I asked, staring Steve in the eye.
“All the time. It’s kinda what I do.” Steve laughed.
“I know there is more here. He was different. I could see it in his eyes. He was making amazing changes. He was clean and was thinking clearly.”
“I can look into it if you want.” Steve looked at me and nodded with confidence. I knew he meant what he said.
The waitress came over to the table and set down my beer and walked away in one continuous motion. She made zero contact with me. Now I was taking this personally. “Did you see that?” I said
to Steve.
“Are you sure you haven’t slept with her and didn’t call her back? Because that was pretty blatant.” Steve laughed. He always enjoyed seeing me strike out. In this case, I hadn’t even stepped into the batter’s box.
“You think?” I said. I wasn’t a man-whore or anything. Just a guy who liked to have a good time. I always remembered a face. I took a drink of my beer and sighed. This girl officially thought she was out of my league; therefore she made zero attempt at flirtation. That, or she was in a committed relationship, and was loyal to her dude no matter what.
Steve looked at me and gave me a serious stare. “So, you told them to pull the plug?”
“Yep, I sure did. He had zero percent chance of coming out of it.”
“I’m sorry, man. Look, we don’t have to watch the game. Do you want to go somewhere to get your mind off it, like shoot pool or something?”
“Isn’t that the same thing we’re pretty much doing here?”
“No,” Steve said, “we would not only be watching the game, eating wings, and drinking beer. We would also be shooting pool.”
“Nah,” I said.
“What else will we do? I sure as hell don’t want to go to church and pray about it.”
“I’m just so tired that I’m not there in time. By the time these guys get to me, they are so far gone that it’s hopeless. I wish once I could get there before it happens. Stop someone from doing something awful to themselves and others. It’s not just him. It’s all my outpatients. I feel like I’m not even helping. I just wish that one time I could stop someone from ever getting addicted. Be there at the very beginning.”
As I said those words, something came over my body and the room started spinning. I thought I was about to throw up. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.
“You okay, man?” Steve asked me.
“Yeah,” I said, catching my breath. “I just got a little nauseous there.”
“You’re not having a seizure or anything?”
“You know I don’t have them while I am awake?” I said to my friend, who knew full well about my epileptic sleep paralysis diagnosis.
“Then we won’t shoot pool, but I don’t think you’ll mind me taking the rest of your wings and fries instead.”
“Go ahead,” I said. I pushed my plate in front of Steve and he began his second eating wind. “I’m going to make it a point to look into it first thing Monday morning.” Steve paused and swallowed his food. “You know, stopping someone before they hurt themselves or others is a common thing we all feel in our line of work. We give a shit about people,” Steve said. “It’s a curse. Even in my line of work. People come to me when it’s too late. I would love to be able to talk to families and tell the parents to love their kids better before they run away. Or speak to a man before he makes an impulsive decision to murder or hurt someone. It would be a great job to have that gift. To stop people before awful things happen, but that isn’t the way it works. You and I get called when it’s too late.”
“I know,” I said. “And it sucks. It makes me question why I got my degree in psychology, just to be a drug counselor.”
“You can always take the necessary steps to become a psychologist.” Steve gave me the usual look he gave me when this subject came up. Steve had wanted me to finish my doctorate for years, so I could get a cozy office and charge rich people an absurd amount of money to fix their issues, or at least make them think I did.
“You know why I do what I do,” I said to Steve.
“Your parents, Hunter. They would want the best for you. You can only fall on the sword in their name for so long.”
I nodded and thought about my parents. My mom died when I was sixteen, and my dad died a year later. They were both drug addicts. Eventually, drugs killed them both. I came home one day and found my mom hunched over: an overdose in bathroom, Marilyn Monroe style. She was dead by the time I got to her. My dad got so high one night that he decided to take his car and fly over a cliff in the San Bernardino Mountains, thinking he was Superman, apparently. “Are we done talking about all of this?” I asked Steve. “I do have 500 dollars on the game.”
“It kind of makes no sense that we pay a bookie to make a 500 dollar bet and for us to pick opposite teams. We might as well just bet each other.” Steve grinned at me.
“The difference is I know our bookie will pay me when I win; trying to get you to pay up is like trying to get this waitress to acknowledge my existence.”
We both laughed and I said, “You’re probably right.”
“What about your main squeeze?” Steve said, teasing me about a woman named Donna. She had been a friend of mine since high school. Steve teased me because I always spent time with her volunteering my services. The truth was, Donna was a dear old friend who I had cared about for many, many years, and just never could sort out exactly what I felt.
“Donna isn’t my ‘main squeeze.’ We haven’t kissed since college. We’re good friends.”
“Kiss? You did more than just kiss. Hey, that was what you told me.”
“Donna is a wonderful person. She just has a few more demons than the rest of us.”
“Speaking of that, are your debts almost paid off with Charlie?”
“Not even close. Charlie still keeps fifty percent of my winnings.” Charlie was the name of our bookie. No last name. Just Charlie.
“How much more do you still owe?” Steve asked.
“Ten grand,” I said. About nine months ago, I felt great about my bowl game pick. I had seen every game and you know what, I thought it was such a no-brainer, I put fifty grand on the game. The most Charlie allows. I lost. Let’s just say Charlie and I needed to do a payment arrangement plan. I paid him one grand a month and he kept half of all my winnings. I had gotten most of it paid off in the last few months. I had been on a hot streak.
“Well, aside from today, you have been on a massive hot streak. Your algorithm is unmatched. You’ve made us both a lot of money. Just once in a while there is a kink in it like tonight, where you make a horrid pick. Better than the alternative.”
“What?” I said. “Him hurting me?” I paused. “I’m sure that isn’t one of his tactics.”
“I don’t know. I hear things,” Steve said.
“I hear things too, and that’s why I bet with the guy; he has a chill enterprise. I have always paid out my losses on time.”
“Just hope your team covers tonight.”
“You better hope not. You bet the other direction.”
“It always makes for a fun game, doesn’t it?” Steve grinned and we both looked at the big screen TV in front of us. There were about ten others in the bar and they all had the football game on. I needed an escape and sports and betting was the best way for me to do it.
Chapter Four
10:00 p.m. Monday Night
I stepped outside Ricardo’s and I was glad I had my leather jacket on, because it was pretty damn chilly.
Steve followed me out with a giant grin on his face. “I don’t know what feels better; covering my bet or seeing you lose yours.”
“You’re a great friend, Steve,” I said. “Nothing like having your best friend kick you in the nuts when you’re down.”
“Don’t give me that, Hunter. If the roles were reversed, you would have a giant smug look on your face.”
“Probably not. Not on this day.” I was being honest.
“Yeah, well. Sorry your team didn’t cover.”
“The only thing worse than losing,” I said, “when you pick a team that doesn’t cover, is when they still win the game. You get to see them celebrate their victory while they stick a knife in your back because they didn’t win by enough points.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic,” Steve said to me. “You’ll get your money back next week. You always do. You want to share a cab?”
“I’m thinking about walking home,” I said. “I’ll take a shortcut through Hillcrest Park.”
“Seriously? Even w
ith a shortcut, you live three miles away.”
“Yeah, and I run five miles four times a week. I can handle a three-mile walk,” I said. I’d had a long day, and I really needed to feel the fresh air and walk.
“You been running that much a week?” Steve seemed surprised to hear that.
“Just recently, I have been on this runner’s high kick.”
“Well, with all the beer I had tonight, the very thought of walking makes me nauseous. Cab city for me.” Steve lived one city over in Placentia. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow, and we’ll play some basketball over at Peak Park.”
“Make it around noon. I plan on sleeping in.” I gave Steve a wink.
“You sleep in every day.”
“I get to make my own hours, and I’d rather work a swing shift than a morning shift. I can get things done in the morning or I can sleep a little longer if I like. Don’t forget, we have mass coming up, too,” I said.
“Yeah, the 11:00 a.m. service,” Steve laughed.
“It’s not my fault Father Fitzpatrick has late services,” I quipped. “He’s just begging me to go to the last one.”
“I think Father Fitzpatrick has that service just so you will go.”
“You and I both know that guy has had our backs for years. He’s a good dude.”
“No disagreement from me. He got me out of juvenile hall twice when I was a kid.” Steve liked to think he was a bad boy when he was young. He thought it gave him a harder edge.
“I’m probably going to meet up with him this week,” I said.
“Why is that?” Steve asked.
“I need to get some good old fashioned man-to-man advice from him,” I said as I zipped up my black leather jacket. I shook my best friend’s hand and wished him safe travels. Steve flagged down a taxi and he was off to his house.
I was wearing blue jeans and a grey sweatshirt with a hoodie. I had my leather jacket on, so I was pretty warm. I walked down the street and just thought about my life. I definitely needed some alone time with Father Fitzpatrick. He had always been there for me ever since grade school. He helped keep Steve and I out of trouble. When we did mess up, he was usually there to clean up our mess.
